Assumptions, MotG Story 1
by Kayzel
Summary: For 40 yrs Paul Bowman had known nothing of his father. His lone clue, a journal written in his mother’s hand he’d found only upon her passing. It had led him to Glenbogle and to his answer. But sometimes knowledge is a double-edged sword.
1. Chapter 1

_This story takes place several months after Hector's death. Lexie and Archie have married and are running Glenbogle together. Golly and Duncan are still working on the estate, Ewan has been retained as the cook, and Donald has returned—but of his own accord._

_This is my own take on Paul Bowman's story. What if Hector wasn't his father?_

******

**Assumptions**

Donald MacDonald, though his name had never been what one would call universally famous was well known in his own right amongst the racing car set. Back in an era when racing, unlike the fuel-injected, turbo-charged and glitterati populated sport of today demanded from its drivers complete relinquishment that their bodies, minds and souls might become one with their beloved vehicles. Man becoming machine.

To say that Donald relished these exciting, golden days of yore would be an understatement. Of women there were plenty. Of money it flowed freely. So too, did the drink. And travel to exotic places, criss-crossing the globe a necessity. He had been in the prime of his life.

But fame as has been said and as Donald was so harshly forced to face was fleeting. Without his career, without his wealth—which so easily and effortlessly had slipped right through his fingers, without even one of the lovely ladies with whom he'd charmed over the years standing by his side Donald, for the first time in his life, was alone.

Having only rumination and reflection to occupy his time to keep him company and raise his spirits on this solo journey through the next phase of his life Donald found he couldn't get past an overwhelming sense of regret. Not for the obvious reasons, his tanked career or loves and riches lost but for something even more simple and yet more dear. He longed for the now-futile chance to once more be called brother. To again be known as in-law, friend, and mate. To hear for the first time his niece and nephew call him uncle. And to return to the Glenbogle estate—his family home, a humbled man but with his head held high.

_**Chapter 1**_

_**Tempus Fugit**_

"Ah! Thank you, sir." Donald MacDonald reached out to take an offered mug of steaming—and now fortified—coffee. "You are a gentleman and a scholar, my friend." Undoing a button on his taut, plaid sports coat he did his best to balance his massive frame on a rickety metal chair. In the process his clashing bowtie, ascot and the wilting bright pink carnation he'd stuck fresh in his lapel that morning had all gone askew. Finally settled, he stretched his long, tired legs out before him.

The Glenbogle estate's ghillie known simply as Golly, shrugged his arched shoulders bristling slightly at the comment. Although Golly hadn't seen Donald in years settling down with him outside his croft to have a wee nip and a chin-wag, a warm pit fire blazing in the ground nearby felt as familiar as always. Silvery white hair, wrinkles and creaky bodies, however had definitely reminded them otherwise. Their youth had done slipped away from them.

Stepping back, the ghillie capped the whisky bottle and set it down beside him in the unlevel grass where it fell against his chair leg with a light clink. Lowering his own thin but still quite muscular self into his seat, he sighed, "Och, Donald," leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he shook his head from side to side. "I'm no scholar, man."

Donald peered out over the dusky terrain with unfocussed eyes, "Ah, that's not true. You, Golly MacKenzie, are a student of all of this," raising his left arm, he swept it slowly through the air as he spoke, "of the landscape, of nature. There once was a time when I knew these woods, this soil, this air, this life, so well. Hmm," he took a deep breath, "and now it is all lost. Sand through an hourglass, Golly and I shall never get it back!" Donald blew lightly over the contents of his cup then took a healthy sip of the hot brew. "What will my legacy be?"

The sun was setting low on this, such a long day.

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

Duncan McKay, the estate's diligent Head Ranger kept a watchful eye on the deep grey storm clouds forming overhead as he loaded some feed bags onto the open bed of a lorrie. With the threat of a soaking downpour looming he struggled to cover the porous burlap sacks with a waxed weatherproof tarp, lamenting as he worked that his job was never done. Spotting the MacDonald's young cook Ewan Brodie, a magazine tucked into his back pocket, he meandered up slowly from the beach, his break obviously over. Duncan called out to him eager for the possible aide of an extra pair of hands.

"Hey, be a mate, would'ya and give us some help? If this feed gets wet, it'll be ruined and Golly will have my head!"

Without hesitation Ewan quickly sprinted over to the vehicle. Grabbing a corner of the heavy piece of canvas from Duncan he affixed its metal grommet to a hook on the inside rim of the truck.

The young chef, whose keen knowledge of cuisine was solely based on his observation of cooking shows on the telly, had managed to find himself a plum position at the estate, though he had never taken his job for granted. He was grateful that the MacDonald family had given him a chance to prove himself and strove daily to assure them that their decision had been merited. Thus, lending a hand to a fellow estate worker was par for the course.

As Ewan stretched out the opposite end of the tarp, adjusting and securing the left corner as he had done the right, something in the distance caught his eye. "Hey, Dunc, who's that bloke over there?"

"Where?" Brushing his hands on his kilt—for this tartan garment along with a graphic-printed tee and black leather jacket was the daily kit of choice for the active, Scottish lad—Duncan squinted in the direction Ewan pointed. A man, wearing hiking gear and a royal blue anorak was trudging along one of the three main paths near the estate but it appeared he was veering away from Glenbogle's front entrance.

"Hey! Hey!" Waving both his arms in the air above his head, Duncan tried to catch the hiker's attention. Receiving no response, he called out loudly again, jumping up and down, his arms flailing all about. "Hey can I help'ya with anything, mate?" When this too was ignored, Duncan hopped down from the truck, thinking the better of unduly stressing the rusty metal joints on the old jalopy.

"Nah, you're going about it all wrong. This is how you get someone's attention, Dunc." Inhaling deeply, Ewan placed two fingers in his mouth and managed to produce a loud, sharp whistle. At this, the tall stranger turned and stopped, staring for a moment and adjusting a small grey knapsack on his shoulders before heading toward them.

Incredulous that the stranger had actually dared to overlook him, Duncan, generally an even-tempered, good-natured chap, rudely demanded of him, "Are you deaf or something? Didn't ya'hear me calling you?"

"Yup, I heard you." The hiker's accent, they noticed, wasn't local. "See," Looking down his nose at the estate workers the man patronizingly explained, "I just don't think my business concerns you, is all. I'm just passing through."

"Wait just a minute here!" Petite in stature Duncan bolstered his confidence by tugging on the front of his leather jacket and jabbing a pointed finger about making his presence, in his mind at least, seem all the more large. He was determined to pry a better answer out of the stranger. "This here is Glenbogle land and I'm a member of this household, and…and…if, if ya've any business here, well then, ya'can take it up with me!"

Chuckling slightly at Duncan's found bravado, Ewan grinned and stood with his head cocked and his arms folded across his chest, waiting to see how the situation would play out.

"All right, you really want to help me," the hiker asked with tempered aggravation. "I'm looking for a man named Douglas MacKenzie. You ever heard of him?"

"Oh, well let's see," Ewan helpfully offered, "we know a Golly Mac…umph…Ow!" Duncan silenced the youth with a swift elbowing to the ribs followed by a stern glare which clearly relayed the message to _shut it_! Returning an equally disdainful look, Ewan whispered to himself, "Douglas?"

"MacKenzie, you say?" Duncan's voice unintentionally raised an octave as he spoke, "What'd'ya want with him, then?"

"So you do know him," the stranger asked expectantly, his gruff demeanor easing up a bit.

"Nnoo…" Duncan stammered, realizing his folly.

"Hmph," snorted the stranger turning away, "That's typical. Local yokels, you are!"

"Yokel wha?" Ewan questioned, rubbing his ribs.

"I said it's typical." The man's eyes widened, punctuating each word, "I got the run around down in the village and I'm getting the run around here. What's with you people? Tss, it must be the Highland air, 'eh?"

"Even if we did know him—which we don't," Duncan boldly sounded off again, "just what'd'ya want with him anyway? We don't know you."

"Tch, " replied the stranger, shaking his head, preparing to walk away.

"Oi! Don't you walk away from me, pal! I haven't finished with you yet!"

Turning back the hiker approached Duncan. His full height over 6 foot tall he towered menacingly over the kilted man. Trying to control his annoyance he spoke through clenched teeth, his voice deep and gritty. "Now _you_ listen up _pal_, I don't want any trouble all right? I came here, and _God knows _where _here_ evenis, to find a man. I will do it with or without your _help_, with or without your _permission_, with or without you lot_ harassing_ me! Do I make myself clear?" Giving them one final glance the man stormed off again and, as if on cue for this dramatic departure, the clouds opened and fat droplets of rain began to fall.

"Oh aye," bitter about being called a yokel Ewan smirked and scornfully shouted, "But you're goin' in the wrong direction, mate!"

_**Library, Glenbogle Estate**_

"Arch?" Lexie MacDonald found her husband, the 15th laird of Glenbogle, in the estate's bookshelf lined library. He was sitting studiously at a writing table set before a large bank of windows which afforded whatever meager light there was from the gray day to fall precisely across the table, softly illuminating the centered blotter and casting Archie into the spotlight. Tapping out a rhythm on the desk's smooth surface with one hand, he held up a piece of paper with the other, silently mouthing the words to something. Were it not for his pull-over cardi, jeans and work boots, Lexie could have envisioned his likeness in an oil painting; his handsome face captured forever, his portrait hung with esteem on one of the high walls alongside all the former MacDonald lairds.

"Huh?" His concentration broken, Archie put down the paper and looked up. "Hiya, Lex." Stretching his back and shoulders he motioned for his wife to join him.

Lexie, still experiencing the heady effects of life as a newly-wed smiled and giggled as she made her way across the room. She gave her husband a proper smooch, slow and sultry, definitely not her common-variety early evening kiss. It left Archie wanting more but Lexie didn't linger.

"Have you seen Ewan?"

Leaning back against the cane woven chair, contemplating the question, Archie teased, "Hmph, how crushing. My kisses are so unforgettable they remind my wife of another man!"

"A man? Ewan?" Lexie joked. "Och, go one with you, Arch. I just wanted to know what he was preparing for dinner and…" A noise in the adjacent hallway distracted her.

"Give me a sec will you, Lex? Mother, Mother?" Archie called out, "Is that you?"

Moments later a slender figure clad in a brown tweed skirt suit, pale pink pashmina and floppy brown hat appeared at the library door.

"Hello, Mother. You know I thought I'd do a special toast for Uncle Donald tonight at dinner," Archie cheerfully proclaimed, "as a sort of welcome home gesture. What do you think?"

The widowed Molly MacDonald, her brow deeply furrowed, walked into the room, "Sure," she said, a forced smile stretching across her lips, "whatever you think is best, dear."

"Molly," Lexie questioned, concern tingeing her voice, "is anything wrong?"

"No," Molly shouted fretting with the cashmere shawl tied around her shoulders, fastidiously loosening the knot and readjusting the soft fabric. "Why should anything be wrong?"

"Take it easy Mother, Lexie was only asking. Anyway," Archie lifted the piece of paper he'd been reading from, jiggling it back and forth, "did you want to hear my speech?"

"Archie," Molly's agitation rose, "if that's what you want to do, well then, I'm sure it will be just fine! You are the laird, after all. And he's your family, your uncle is. You share the same blood." Hesitating, she twisted her hands together. "Listen, I have some things that I, well, that I have to take care of." Hurrying out of the room she added, "I can't be standing around chit-chatting the rest of the day away, can I?"

"Molly?" Lexie called after her. "What do you think that was all about, Archie?"

"I don't know, Lexie. With Mother, one never knows. Whatever it is though, she'll come round. I'm sure of it. Now, Lexie MacDonald, my darling, blushing bride, do want to hear my toast?"

Resigned, Lexie rolled her eyes and put forward an attentive ear.

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

_**Estate Ghillie's Croft**_

Golly MacKenzie was standing at his kitchen sink washing out a coffee pot and mugs, mulling over his visit with Donald when he heard a loud knock on his front door. His croft, tiny but cozy was outfitted like his tool shed on the estate; crammed with all sorts of interesting odds and ends tucked here and there, all precariously balanced in little piles. Wiping his damp hands on a green and white striped dishtowel he headed to the front entry, skillfully weaving in and out amongst the contained clutter. Opening his front door, which was deep red in color and weather-beaten down to the bare wood in spots—both inside and out—it creaked ominously and added to the uneasy feeling Golly had upon seeing a stranger on his doorstep.

Before the ghillie had a chance to address him, the wayward hiker spoke, his tone impatient, terse and demanding, "I'm looking for a man named Douglas MacKenzie. Would that be you?"

Stunned to hear his real name uttered Golly stood silent for a moment and when he did speak, he faltered. "Oh, I'm, um, I'm sorry, son. Aye, well I mean, yes, yes, son. Yes, that's my name, um, 'tis me."

"Son," the stranger shook his head and mumbled under his breath, "yeah, right.

"I'm sorry?" Golly questioned, confused.

The rain that had begun to fall earlier was now coming down steady and thick. Moving closer to the house the man pushed back his hood and tried to get beneath the entrance's overhang. "Look," he shouted above the din of the miserable weather, his voice now worn and weary, "I've come a very long way to say something brief. Do you think it might be possible for me to come in for a few?"

Shifting his footing Golly reached higher on the door as if to shut it, "I don't know, I'm not sure what it is you want from me." Studying the stranger's uncovered, rain-slicked face in the faint beam shed by the lamp above the door, Golly looked him squarely in his deep blue eyes and then into the surrounding precipitation-shrouded darkness and changed his mind. "Mmm-hmm, yeah," the ghillie changed his mind, "I think it might be best you do come in."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_**A Proper Welcome Home**_

"Oh, Molly, Lexie, Archie," Donald MacDonald patted his belly, "thank you all for such a resplendent repast!" Seated at the head of the dining room table, facing the large bay windows that overlooked the loch Donald closed his eyes, content.

Stealing this opportunity, Archie rose from the table and gave a nod to someone standing by a side door just beyond in the butler's pantry. Seconds later Ewan entered with a tray of fluted glasses and a large bottle of champagne.

"Oooh," Donald opened his eyes and exclaimed, excitedly, "What's this, then?"

"Well Uncle Donald, we thought it only right," Archie glanced in his mother's direction for encouragement, but she was looking down, fussing with her necklace, "to properly welcome you back home with a toast in your honor."

"Oh my, oh my! Ha-ha!" Donald clapped his hands and sat up straighter, a broad smile broke across his face as his eyebrows danced with delight.

Deftly popping the cork to a round of hoorahs, Ewan began to pour the champagne.

"Be sure to pour one for yourself there, lad," instructed Donald, "I'd like for you to join us! You've cooked a delicious meal, one to rival any of the best I've ever tasted, in fact. Surely you are welcome at the MacDonald table, 'eh? Don't know as Hector would have had the staff join him, though he was quite liberal, but certainly not Father. It's a wonder your grandfather ever tolerated my sitting here as a lad, Archie. And at that it was only on special occasions when we, Hector and I, were on leave from Hastings Preparatory Academy. Ah, you know, elbows on the table, that sort of thing. Anyway, as I'm neither my older brother nor my father I shall make up my own rules! After all, we are all friends here. Are we not?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Uncle." The young chef waited for his boss's permission before taking a seat next to Duncan. "Of course you may sit with us, Ewan." Clearing his throat, Archie turned to his Uncle and began his toast.

_"Donald, it is unfortunate that you and Father were unable to spend your golden years together. Though you may have had your differences in the past, I believe the two of you were always connected in spirit._ Daring Donald, _he'd called you and him, your_ Heroic Hector. _This family has known much sorrow and loss over the years, with my dear brother Jamie's death at such a young age, and now, tragically, Father's. But their memories will never be forgotten. To quote a Native American proverb: _They are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind._ There is no more fitting tribute we can bestow upon those we've lost, than to persevere, together. So, let us look toward the future; a new era of joy and happiness dawns on Glenbogle. Welcome home! For you, Uncle, are now the Patriarch of the Clan MacDonald, and to this, and you, I raise my glass! Slainte!!"_

"Slainte," was the loud and _almost _unanimous response.

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

_**Estate Ghillie's Croft**_

Golly MacKenzie led the rain-soaked stranger into his home, lobbing the dishtowel onto the counter as he walked by. Following closely behind the tall man ducked out of instinct as he passed through the doorways, the cramped quarters giving the illusion that he had entered a child's playhouse. Though the ghillie had gestured for his guest to sit in a leather chair near the fireplace the younger man removed his knapsack but remained standing in the middle of the open room, taking in his surroundings.

Slim and neatly dressed the hiker looked to Golly to be in his late thirties and, though hard to tell beneath the layers of clothing, well-built and fit. He sensed the lad was far from home not just geographically, as his prominent North English tongue revealed, but, as there was a definite aura of desolation and anguish about him, metaphorically too.

"Can I offer you something? Have a beer, will you?" Other than the natural instinct to treat anyone who stepped across his threshold with decency, he or she being a guest in his home, Golly was hard-pressed to understand why he'd felt the need to act the consummate host to this unknown fellow, who at the same time inexplicably seemed familiar.

"Look Mr. MacKenzie, this isn't a social call."

"Here, listen son, er, I mean lad, please, let me hang your jacket to dry by the fire and then you can tell me why you're here, okay?"

Whether it was the quaintness of the setting or the gentle warmth emanating from the fireplace, the younger man seemed to soften a little. Offering his outstretched hand to Golly he said, "Yeah, my name's Paul Bowman."

"Well, Paul Bowman it's good to meet you."

The jacket hung, the two men sat opposite each other. "I'm sorry if I seemed a bit out of it before," the ghillie explained, "it's just that no one's called me Douglas in…"

"Forty years?"

"Yes, well," the ghillie hesitated, eyeing the younger man suspiciously, "anaway, folks call me Golly now."

"Fine. Golly it is then. So tell me, Golly, why did you turn your back on my mother 40 years ago?"

"What? I didn't!"

As Golly struggled for words, Paul opened his knapsack pulling from it a worn leather journal which he threw onto the coffee table positioned between them. "Right, well it's all in there. Golly."

_**Library, Glenbogle Estate**_

"Now, ha-ha," Donald spoke at the top of his lungs leading Archie, Duncan and Ewan into the library, "let us all enjoy a fireside aperitif and I shall regale you with tales from the far reaches of the world!"

"Molly," separating herself from the men, Lexie followed her mother-in-law out into the hall, "didn't Golly mention he'd be joining us for dinner tonight?"

"Yes. I don't know what's kept him."

"That's a bit odd, isn't it? Maybe I should have Duncan check in on him."

"No, no Lexie, I don't think that's necessary. I'm sure he's fine and come to think of it I don't know that we'd made any definite plans. Besides the poor dear probably needed time to recuperate, I believe he entertained Donald all afternoon!"

"All right, well if you're sure. Listen, Molly is everything all right between the two of you?"

"Between me and Golly, you mean? Yes Lexie, yes of course."

"Okay. So what's with him then?" Lexie motioned toward the library.

"With whom, oh, Donald you mean? He's my loud-mouthed, ostentatious, bigheaded brother-in-law is all, Lexie. And I'm being kind! Why do you ask?"

"No, it's nothing, I guess."

Despite the thick library walls, Donald's booming voice resonated throughout the house. Speaking above the guffaw, they heard him quote, "One is born, one dies; the land increases." And there erupted another round of laughter.

"Oooh," Molly shuddered, "you see dear, he's proven my point exactly. I'm off to bed."

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

_**Estate Ghillie's Croft**_

Golly lifted the tan-colored journal and ran his fingers over its soft, worn surface, replacing it to the coffee table unopened. "So your Megan's son, then?" Paul shook his head yes. "What has she told you about her past?"

"My mother told me nothing of her past. She raised me as a single parent and though this was commendable I was deprived of not only having a father but of knowing him, too. She never told me his identity. When I was young, my mum would make up these fanciful tales, she would, claiming him a man of mystery dealing in covert operations and such. It fueled my dreams as a boy, it did. But finally it came to the point where I stopped asking. She passed away two months ago."

"Did she? Oh, Paul, I'm so sorry. I'd no idea."

"As I went through her things," Paul continued, "I was hoping to find some answers. A tiny shred of evidence that would tell me something about my father and would prove my history existed, somewhere."

"So then how did you know where to look? What led you to Glenbogle?"

"It's all in there." Paul grabbed the journal and flipped through the pages, stopping about a third of the way through. He pushed the open book across the table, the binding so relaxed with wear, it laid flat. "There're drawings of you and of Glenbogle. Read it for yourself. She said she loved you."

"Och," Golly waved his hands and sat back, "I don't need to read it, Paul. I lived it."

"Right, okay fine, sure. You lived it, no sense in re-living it then, is there?"

"No, Paul, that's not what I meant. Listen, I'm not your father—if that was indeed your thinking. Megan never told me who the, who _your_ father was. We were young, we were there for each other both having no family, both being in this world all alone. We worked up at the Big House together and we shared many, many good times, hell, I'd even go so far as to say that we _did_ love each other, but as _friends_, Paul, that's all. I would've done anything for her. When she realized she was pregnant, she panicked, son." Paul shook his head as if he didn't believe him. "It's the truth, lad, please listen to me. I even offered to marry her and raise her baby as my own. It was all I could think to do given the times, her being an unwed mother and all. But she was scared, your mum was, and she was stubborn. Ultimately, she decided that she couldn't live here, a place she loved. Maybe it was out of shame or guilt. I am sure of one thing, however. She wanted a better life for herself and her baby—_for you_, Paul."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

_**Sleepless Nights and Confessions**_

Molly couldn't sleep. Hastily throwing on a thick terry robe she shoved her feet into a pair of fleece-lined, suede slippers then shuffled down the hall and the three flights of stairs in the main corridor in near-total darkness, save the natural light filtering in through the grand staircase windows. Years of roaming about the house alone on sleepless nights had made her an expert at maneuvering the halls in the dark.

Walking through the lower level she didn't seem to notice the cold damp air which seeped in through the drafty casements in the servants' corridors and followed her into the kitchen where it set with a cool heaviness resembling a thick, static gel. By the dim moonlight she prepared a kettle setting it on the huge gas stove at the far end of the room. Plopping down heavily on one of the wooden stools at the large center table, several pent-up tears escaped her moist eyes and, caught in the pale silvery light from a nearby window they glistened in two trails down her cheeks.

The minutes silently passed until the kettle's whistle jostled Molly out of her reverie while simultaneously and unexpectedly also bringing Donald to the kitchen door.

"Oh?" Though Donald attempted to whisper, the words of his softened bass voice expelled from his chest in little puffs of swirling whitish steam resonated throughout the cavernous kitchen. "Is it tea time? Lovely!"

Molly kept her back to her brother-in-law as she reached to an overhead shelf for a mug and a small tin of tea.

"Molly," Donald cautiously approached her.

"What is it, Donald?" Molly breathed heavily through her nose, her jaw set and tense as she moved back to the wooden table.

"Dear, dear, Molly," Donald leaned across the table, his breath—laced with a musky, flowery hint of scotch and mouthwash also manifested itself in heavy, rapid movements but it was more due to his poor physical condition than any emotional vexations. "It's been, what 25, 30 years since I last saw you?"

"It's been forty years, Donald, forty." Slamming down the mug, Molly plucked a tea bag from the tin. In the wee hours of the morning prepared tea was much easier to deal with than loose. Retrieving the kettle from the burner she poured her cup black, not bothering with a pinch of milk or even a spoonful of sugar. After all, it was the ritualistic, mindless process of the whole procedure—whether bagged tea or loose, and not the end product itself that she hoped would do its job to help calm her nerves.

"Ah." Donald raised his brows in response then clumsily fished around for another mug. Upon returning the pot, Molly pushed his substantial body out of the way and gracefully removed a cup from the shelf, thrusting it in his general direction.

"Are we ever going to have a proper talk, Molly?"

"Why? What's there to say, Donald? Are you going to apologize?" Standing in the shadows, Donald remained silent. "No," she continued, "I thought not!"

"I won't apologize for loving you, Molly." His sister-in-law waved her hand through the air then placed it on her forehead as Donald pressed on, "_You_ left first, you know, Molly. You were the one who ran off to London to find yourself!"

"How dare you! I left for many reasons, Donald. My husband died…resenting you…thinking you deserted him. I never told him of our tryst, or more accurately, of your pass at me!"

"But he _knew_ the truth, Molls. Oh yes, he knew. In a drunken fit one night I told him everything, even confessing my love toward you. It slipped out before I'd known what I'd said. The next day, when I'd realized what I'd done, realized how deeply I'd hurt him I thought it best to just leave. Maybe after giving it some time I should have come back but I dare say it was my foolish pride, my stupid, foolish pride that kept me away."

"He knew? Hector never said a word. All those years and he knew," Molly whispered to herself, stabilizing her body against the edge of the table, forcing her brain to wrap itself around the information she'd just been given. "Och," she hissed, anger and frustration crumbling her usually composed demeanor, the poisoned venom of her emotions surging through her, infiltrating her system and spewing from her lips, "you should never have returned to Glenbogle, Donald!"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_**What's in a Name?**_

What greeted Golly MacKenzie the next morning was Megan's journal still lying open on the coffee table, a sketched image of him at a much younger age staring back, hope in his eyes. The name Douglas MacKenzie scrawled in a florid script, a heart jauntily dotting the 'I' in his last name appeared beneath the drawing.

Though the night before they'd managed to part as tentative, mutual friends Golly had sensed the dismay that still understandably plagued Paul Bowman. Perhaps even, the ghillie reasoned, the lad had left the diary behind accidently on-purpose. Whatever the case Golly knew he'd have to journey into the village before the day's end to find Paul and return the book to his care. Though Golly hadn't a clue as to where Paul was staying it would be easy enough to locate his whereabouts in the village given the close-knit community residing there. Information, disguised as gossip, traveled from person to person quicker than a school of salmon being chased by a hungry pike.

Hesitant at first to glance through the journal, reluctant to even in death invade Meagan's privacy, the ghillie's curiosity got the better of him and before preparing to set out for his daily rounds he began thumbing through the pages. Curiously he noted some of the sheets had been torn out leaving behind several ragged strips, the edges of which were a series of tiny feathery jags. Scanning the text he looked for relevant snippets, clues he might be able to decipher to help Paul in his plight. Coming across a few detailed drawings of Glenbogle and the neighboring landscape, Golly remembered with admiration the talented, untrained artist Megan had been.

But one section in particular, three short pages of script just after the largest sketched likeness of him, all dated March 1966 had especially captured Golly's attention.

_**Dining Room, Glenbogle Estate**_

"Ayaaaw!" Donald MacDonald yawned loudly as Ewan Brodie began clearing away the breakfast dishes.

"Up late, Donald?"

"Erm yes, my boy," Donald shrugged and spoke seriously, "'tis the scourge of the man who has a restless mind, I'm afraid."

Screwing up his eyes and smiling to himself, Ewan brushed a crumb-sweeper across the surface of the table. "What's on your agenda for today then?"

"Ah!" Donald rubbed his hands together. "I'm going to go down to the village to see what mischief I can stir up!"

"Well," the chef laughed patting Donald on his shoulder, "good luck with that! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

_**Glenbogle Village**_

Paul Bowman stood in the middle of _MacKechnie's _grocery store calling out for service. No one answered. Making his way outside he peered at the windows to check for posted open and closing times. A small sign with red lettering indicated the shop should have been open, and indeed it _was_ open just not, it appeared, for business. Exasperated, he sat on a nearby bench, anxiously strumming his fingers on the seat's wooden slats.

"You're not from these parts, are you?" Donald had made his way into town.

"What gave me away?" Paul looked up, intrigued by the remark. "Was it the look of sheer frustration or the slick sheen of city life?"

"Ah-ha! Do I detect a Yorkshire accent?"

"Yup." Paul stood and reached out his right hand. "Hi. The name's Bowman, Paul Bowman."

"It's good to meet you, Double O Bowman." Paul winced at the attempted joke. "Now, why don't I let _you_ buy an old man a cup of coffee, 'eh?"

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

Megan's written words were running over and over again in a continuous loop in Golly's mind making it difficult for him to concentrate on his work.

_"Oh! I loved him so much—and not just as a friend…"_

_"…the worst of it is he's no idea…"_

_"…we're not all friends here…"_

_"…our situation is such that I could never tell him…"_

_"…Oh, D! Why did I have to fall for you…"_

The early May air still quite chilly and brisk, Golly zipped his jacket to the very top and turned up the collar to help shield the stiff wind then situating himself against his truck he faced the fenced-in wolf pen and idly watched a pair of older wolf cubs playing roughly about. The Alpha male, a beautiful creature with a marbled black and white coat and eyes the color of aquamarine gemstones, stood guard in front of the deep den where the pregnant female was lying. She'd be delivering any day now Golly knew.

_Was_ he the real reason Megan had left? He wondered. Could she have harbored a deep secret love for him? Golly could see where Paul had come to the conclusion that he was his father, there _were_ only drawings of _him_ in the journal. He and Megan had never been intimate, that was for certain. But had Megan wished she'd been carrying _his_ baby? Was he the 'D' she referred to in her entries?

Golly realized his efforts were futile as these were questions he'd probably never discover the answers to and finding them, perhaps, might only lead to more people getting hurt. The truth of the matter was although he'd had his suspicions he really had no idea who Paul's father was. Yet.

_**Glenbogle Estate**_

The sound of a roaring engine blasting down the drive announced the arrival of Donald, back from his venture into the village. Bringing his convertible to a screeching full stop outside the estate's garages, loose stones flew up from the pavement as surrounding dust clouds rose and settled. Coughing and waving his hands to clear the air Paul lifted the latch on the passenger door, his knuckles white from holding onto the edge for dear life. "Wow, Donald, you must have been a race car driver in a previous life!"

Before he'd had the chance to respond to Paul's astute comment, Donald noticed his nephew Archie and the estate's ghillie exiting the Estate Office. "Ah, Archie, Golly, I'd like you to meet someone," they all nodded in greeting, "this here fine, young Yorkshireman's mother was part of Glenbogle's venerable staff ever so many moons ago!"

"Oh, really," said Archie, "Did she return to see the old crumbling homestead? I fear it's in a bit of disrepair at the moment."

Paul tilted his head and spoke gently, "Um, no, actually, my Mum passed on a few months ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. So what brings you back, then? Ever been to this neck of the woods before?"

"Nope," Paul responded with a laugh.

Donald moved forward, putting an arm around Paul. "He's looking into his past, my dear boy."

"Well, um, your Uncle, is it?" Archie indicated affirmation. "He mentioned that yearly staff photos were taken. Basically what I'm interested in is finding out anything about my mother or maybe even talking to anyone who knew her. I'd like to connect the dots of my past, or, really my Mum's past."

Donald was milling around behind Paul as he spoke, making wild gestures and expressive facial contortions, mouthing the words, "It's a mys-ter-y. Paul's a bas-tar…" Paul turned around, looking oddly at the older man.

Donald covered-up his antics quickly by pointing toward the house with one of his extended arms saying, "Ohhh! So sorry to interrupt, I just um, I just wanted to ask my nephew a question, yes, that's it. I wanted to ask Archie, if the photo albums were still kept in the library?"

"Yes, as far as I know they are, Uncle Donald."

"Oi! It's you again!" Recognizing the rude hiker from the previous day, the kilted Duncan McKay charged noisily in amongst the group.

"Duncan!" Donald shouted, irritated by the interruption, "What are you going on about?"

"Duncan?" Paul spoke up, "Is that your name? Ah, let me think." Paul closed his eyes. "Yes, I've got it." His vivid blue eyes now wide open, he addressed Duncan. "Did you know your name means _warrior_? Well actually it's derived from the name_ Donnchadh_, which was a combination of the names of two Scottish kings; the Gaelic interpretation is brown (donn) warrior (cath)."

Everyone was dumfounded.

"Um sorry," said Paul apologetically, "it's a bad habit, I have. It's called Onomastics, discovering the derivation of people's names. It was a favorite past-time of my Mum's. It's kind of a neat party trick, though." He turned back to Duncan, "My mum swore that some names almost always foretold what the person was destined to become, and since you've already got the kilt, that's that, I guess. Listen," Paul approached Duncan, placing an arm around his shoulders, "why don't we let the past be forgiven, shall we?" Paul looked round at those gathered, "We're all friends here, are we not?" Duncan, a little taken aback, merely shook his head.

"Right you are! Well said, indeed," stated Donald, ushering Paul toward the house for a taste of Scotland's finest, while Duncan followed behind, posturing as a Celtic warrior, his newly found persona.

Golly drew nearer to Archie. "Listen, lad, I don't know that it's a wise idea to have Paul poking around, following Donald of all people."

"What's the harm in it, Golly? So, he sees a few pictures, we give him a short tour of the house and grounds and then who knows? Maybe he'll have some connections or want to bring round a group for fishing," Archie thought for a moment, "no, no, on second thought that's probably unlikely. Anyway, the point is, it'll keep Donald occupied and out of my mother's hair for a few hours and, you know Golly," Archie patted the ghillie's back and smiled, "you have to think about the positive side of things."

As Archie headed into the house, Golly's only response was a low, deep grumble. Nevertheless, something Paul had said had jogged his memory.

_**Drawing Room, Glenbogle Estate**_

Archie lifted a heavy cut-glass decanter from the liquor table in the drawing room and poured four glasses of amber-colored liquid, then handed them all around. Paul promptly placed his glass of whiskey on a side table and began discussing the time-span he had determined his mother had worked on the estate.

Just then, Lexie joined them. "Oh Lexie, good, you're here," said Archie, "Paul, this is my lovely wife, Lexie. Lexie, this is Paul—his mother used to work on the estate."

"Hi," Lexie reached out her hand as Paul rose to greet her. "I didn't realize we had company. Do you still live round here then, Paul?"

"No, I'm just doing a little amateur investigating concerning my Mother's past. She died a few months ago and I didn't really know much about her life, well pre-me, that is!"

"Yes, Lex, he'd like to look at some of the photo albums."

"Yeah, sure, that sounds fine." Spotting Paul's untouched glass on the table, she laced into her husband. "Arch, didn't you or your Uncle think Paul might prefer something other than whiskey to drink?"

Not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he'd pushed his drink aside, Paul's face reddened. "Oh, it's just I've never really acquired a taste for whiskey." Hearing this, Donald shrugged and slid his arm across the table, procuring the full glass for himself.

"No, it's no problem. Why don't _you all _start looking for the albums while _I_ go and get our new friend here something a bit more palatable."

"Well, when my wife gives an order, it's best to follow it."

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

_**Estate Ghillie's Croft**_

Golly had returned to his croft to rummage through the jam-packed shelves that lined two walls of his tiny cottage, searching for something that he knew he hadn't seen in at least forty years. He started with the shelves on the left and steadily progressed around the room. Years and years of accumulated material flew off the dusty shelves in his frenzied search, littering the furniture and floor with a colorful smattering of ephemera. After a few minutes he collapsed in the nearest chair, spent from all his efforts. And that's when he remembered. Tucked behind a tarnished, silver-framed picture of his own daughter, Jess were two cherished tomes; one, a small dictionary that had once belonged to his grandmother the other a notebook of Megan's. The exact items he'd been hoping to find.

_**Glenbogle Estate**_

Wearing a dark green gardening apron with a pair of dirt-smudged, yellow gloves sticking out of the front pocket Molly MacDonald traipsed across the over-grown side lawn, a basket of freshly-picked flowers hanging loosely from her hand. Approaching the house, catching sight of her disheveled reflection in the long bank of library windows Molly hastily rested the basket on one of the wicker patio chairs and pulled off her wide-brimmed straw hat. Concentrating so intently on her reflection as she combed her fingers through her hair, she hadn't peered through the glass to see the commotion going on inside, the volumes upon volumes of photo albums being lifted from the dusty library shelves. When one sudden movement did attract her attention, she shaded her eyes and leaned into the window. Astonished at the sight, Molly stormed inside through a side door.

"What is going on in here?" Molly demanded then shouted, "Donald! Be careful!"

Perched on a rather high rung of a thin wooden library ladder, Donald, turning abruptly at her outburst, barely caught himself before falling.

"Just what do you think you're doing up there, Donald? And you," she'd pointed to Paul, "you with your obvious height, couldn't you have helped him get whatever it was he so desperately needed?"

Feeling guilty, Paul sheepishly stepped forward to help Donald off the ladder.

"Mother, please, calm down, Paul is a guest in our home."

"I don't care who he is, Archie!"

"Molly," Lexie urged, "why don't we sit for a moment and maybe I can explain."

"I don't want to sit," Molly glanced around at the books and albums covering every available flat surface. "I just want to know what you all are doing."

"Actually, Mother you might be able to help our guest here. His name is Paul Bowman. His mother was Megan Bowman."

Molly eyed Paul and then looked back at her son.

Archie continued, "She had once been in Glenbogle's employ as part of the house-keeping staff."

"I remember who she was," Molly interjected.

"You do," said Paul, eagerly. "Well, I'd love the chance to chat with you Mrs. MacDonald."

"Why don't you ask him, hmm?" Ignoring Paul's request, Molly pointed at Donald. "He knew all sorts of things about how to communicate with the staff! Isn't that right, Donald?"

Everyone exchanged questioning glances.

"My word, Molly! What, pray tell, are you getting at?"

"What was the advice you used to give my husband, hmm?"

Lexie stepped toward Molly, putting her hand on her arm, "Molly, maybe this can wait."

"No!" Fuming, she pulled her arm away. "No, Lexie, this can't wait!"

Golly had quietly entered the library but remained standing in the open doorway.

"You encouraged him to, to, oh!" Molly found she couldn't continue.

"To what," questioned Donald, "To sleep with the staff? Oh, Molly, please! I would tease Hector, yes because he was such a straight arrow! I'd ruffle his feathers now and then but, Molls, trust me. Hector never slept with the staff."

"No, but you did," said Golly.

Donald shot him a look across the room, "What!?"


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

_**Clarified Assumptions**_

"Wuh? Did I miss something? You could hear a pin drop in here!" Carrying a large tray of sandwiches, cakes and coffee which Lexie had asked him to prepare, Ewan edged his way into the library through the connecting dining room door. The commotion of his presence unaffecting the stunned family and guests, the chef searched for a clear spot to put down the tray and finding none carried it back into the dining room. His curiosity peaked he returned himself to the library door to have a listen.

Golly MacKenzie moved further into the library toward one of the desks, gently closing a large leather and gold embossed photo album before carefully laying atop it his cherished items. "There was something you said outside," Golly addressed Paul, "about your mother being interested in the origin of peoples' names." The ghillie held up a tiny red dictionary. "This was what started your mother's fascination; my Grandmother MacKenzie's dictionary." As Golly spoke Donald walked over to the fireplace at the opposite end of the room and idly poked his foot along grate before taking a seat in the adjacent armchair. The burgundy-toned leather creaked faintly as he positioned himself, the wooden frame giving way a little under his weight.

"There's a list of names and their meanings in a section at the back," Golly continued, "Megan had once found it in amongst my things and would request I bring it along when we'd all gather together for picnics and such. The _wee book _she called it," the ghillie chuckled. "And she'd keep us all entertained. Do you remember those times, Donald?"

Donald, seeming to be lost in thought and perhaps also lost in memories, nodded, then whispered to himself, "Megan—a pearl."

"When she exhausted the contents of this book," Golly put down the dictionary, "she wished to move on to surnames and family names which, upon Donald's suggestion, led her here," he pointed to the ceiling-high bookshelves surrounding the library, "to this very room."

Opening the notebook he had also brought along Golly retrieved from it a fragile, ivory-colored envelope. This he handed to Paul, who, recognizing his mother's flowery handwriting, ran a finger over its surface, tracing the letters. It was addressed to Douglas MacKenzie. There was no return address.

"What's this," Paul asked quietly.

"Open it, Paul."

Collectively holding their breath the others drew closer to gain a better view as Paul lifted the triangular flap on the back of the envelope and slid out what appeared to be a blank piece of paper in a heavier stock. Glancing surreptitiously at Golly he steeled his resolve and slowly and ever so carefully turned the card over. Revealed was a small portrait of Paul as a newborn, drawn in soft charcoal but tinted a rose-pink on his lips and chubby cheeks with light brown locks of wispy hair about the baby's crown. Paul read aloud what was written beneath the drawing:

_**Born 14 November 1966**_

_**  
Paul Donald Bowman**_

"I only slept with her once," said Donald softly, clearly stunned. Then he realized the absurdity of his remark.

Leaning closer to Golly, Paul spoke to him in a lowered voice, "So what does this mean? Does it mean what I think it means?"

"Aye, I didn't make the connection at first," Golly explained, "but then I realized the "D" she refers to in her journal isn't me, it actually stood for Donald. I remembered something I'd saved of your mother's, a book she must have left behind in her rush to escape from Glenbogle." Golly picked up Meagan's notebook, "She used it to record her research on names." Turning to a marked page the left side showed a rather vivid and striking drawing of a young, dapper Donald and on the right was wording. He handed it to Paul.

Paul read out loud again, more for himself than for the benefit of any other:

_**Donald: Ruler of the World**_

_**  
My heart will always belong to you, my first.**_

"Fantastic," whispered Ewan, "This is better than a flippin' episode of _EastEnders_."

Putting down the envelope, card, and notebook, Paul started backing away from the desk, bending his elbows and splaying his hands and fingers out in front of him, he shook his head and exited the room through the side door that led outside.

********

Motioning for Duncan and Ewan to help her, Lexie readied the prepared food on the dining room table. Chances were no one would have much of an appetite in light of the shocking circumstances but at least it had given them something to do.

"Golly," still in the library, Archie approached the ghillie, speaking to him discreetly, "can you tell me honestly, did you think father, my father, was Paul's father too?"

"Aye Archie, aye, I did. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply I thought your dad had been unfaithful to your mum."

"No, Golly, I understand now. Before, you were trying to warn me, trying to protect mother from getting hurt. Thank you. A noble man you are, Mr. Douglas MacKenzie."

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

_**Banks of the Loch**_

Paul had made his way down to the edge of the loch and though he was looking out over the calm waters and misty, mountainous horizon, he wasn't really seeing any of it. He turned around as he heard someone approaching.

"Mrs. MacDonald, listen, I'm sorry to bring all of this on you, especially now. Donald told me about your husband. I'm so sorry for your loss."

Molly shook her head, saying a quiet thank you. "My husband liked to sit by the loch. Well he would have called it fishing but honestly I don't think Hector ever caught a fish in his life. There was just something about the water. It calmed him." She crossed her arms against the cool air drifting gently across the loch. "Paul, your mother was a lovely woman. She was attractive, talented, kind and she was also a dreamer. I didn't begrudge her the use of the library one bit. What good is storing years of history if only to be locked up and hidden away. It should be shared. That's how civilization progresses. But our personal histories are quite a different story aren't they? When your mum became pregnant—and I did know about it, the walls do sometimes have ears—well Hector was always so secretive and Donald so darn persuasive, I guess I drew my own conclusions. Jealousy got the best of me I suppose." She shrugged and smiled. "I left for a spell, just before your mother did and when I returned she was gone and so too was Donald. When we didn't hear from either of them again the matter was dropped. Dropped but never forgotten, that is." Pausing briefly, Molly reached out to Paul and laughed, "You know sometimes it pains me to admit this but underneath all that pomp and ceremony Donald really is a _decent chap_ as my dear Hector would have said."

Paul smiled back and breathed deeply, though it didn't do much to clear his head. "Aye, Mrs. MacDonald. There is just so much to consider. I've waited my whole life for this very moment to happen, to find out the truth about whom my father really was and never really knowing what to expect. Now that I've done so I feel almost paralyzed. I should be rejoicing, embracing my family, asking all kinds of questions, but I believe I've never felt so lost."

Molly marveled at the inner strength this young man possessed, keeping his composure and displaying such fine manners when facing something so life-altering. She gave his arm a reassuring, motherly squeeze. "Give it time, Paul. Give it time."

"Thanks, Mrs. MacDonald, that's just what mi'mum would have said!"

"Well let's not be so formal then, yes? I insist from here on out you call me Molly."

"Right and again thanks for everything Molly."

"You're a fine man, Paul Bowman. Welcome to the family. I'll see you inside, dear."

_**Interior, Glenbogle Estate**_

While Donald watched the interaction between Molly and Paul through the library windows everyone else had piled into the dining room. Lexie stood at the head of the table banging a glass and silver salt shaker on its polished walnut surface, calling those assembled to order. "Ahem! So, Mr. _Douglas_ Golly MacKenzie," snickers arose, "Let's see here what the name Douglas means, shall we?" Someone had started a drum roll as Lexie flipped through Megan's notebook. "Oooh, Golly, I always knew you had a mysterious side. Douglas comes from the Gaelic name _Dubhghlas_, meaning Dark River or Blood River. Eeeww," she wrinkled her nose, "Oh, wait, wait, there's more! It was the name of a river where a very bloody battle took place!" Comically dramatic ooohs and aahhs were verbalized around the table.

Entering the dining room Molly took off her gardening apron and laid it on a corner table then sidling up to Golly's chair she placed her arm comfortably across its back.

"Oh aye not so fast there, lass," Golly's head was tilted up; he raised his right eyebrow and pointed repeatedly at Megan's notebook. "Tell me then what's the meaning of the name _MacKenzie_, 'eh," he goaded, "Please read that derivative, too!"

"Aye-aye, Captain!" Lexie flipped through the somewhat alphabetized notebook and found the title _MacKenzie_. "Okay, the Gaelic surname, _Mac Coinnich_, literally means _Son of Coinneach_?" She wasn't sure of the pronunciation, but continued, "It's an Irish name meaning—och get this everyone—_handsome_! Oh, m'handsome man, look at ya!" Golly grinned from ear to ear, the dimples on both his cheeks magically appearing while the others laughed and hooted and Molly gave him a friendly kiss.

Returning to the library Paul joined Donald by the windows. As he approached, Donald began to say something, but Paul hushed him and slapped him between the shoulder blades. "Donald, I haven't even begun to process all of this yet, but c'mon, let's go Rule the World together, okay?"

"Ah-ha," grinning, Donald replied, "Now that's my boy!"

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

_**Estate Ghillie's Croft**_

Later that evening Golly sat alone in his croft huddled amongst the scattered bits and pieces of his life still emptied from the shelves, thinking about his own legacy while he waited on the line. "Hello?" He spoke into the receiver as he gazed at the framed photo of his daughter. "Could I speak to Jessica, please? Mm-hmm, yup, you can tell her it's her father ringing."

_**The End**_


End file.
